Brothers get paid nowadays for making beats. Repeat: For making beats, brothers get paid. And when I say “paid,” I don’t mean no punching-the-clock-forty-hours-a-week-paycheck-directly-deposited kind of paid paid. When I say “paid,” I mean paid. Like “check,” as in chickity-check it.
(He busts a beat, human-beatbox style.)
That right there is 75,000 large.
(He busts another.)
That? That one’s going for 250K. And this, this one:
(He busts yet again.).
Well, like the guy at the Swap Meet says, “If you’ve gots to ask, you can’t afford.” When I heard how much beats was going for, my life suddenly got a whole lot easier. Because, I’m telling you, man, I’ve tried it all. I’ve flipped the burgers. I’ve marketed the telephone. I even had my own Web site: www, dot, backwash, dot, b-i-z. The idea was to grab the domain before anyone else did and then sell to the highest bidder.
(He taps his temple three times as if to say, “real smart like,” then shakes his head disappointingly.)
Fucking tech bubble. But now. Now…. I don't have to worry about that no more, because all that shit is in the rear-view on account of this beat thing. You see
(he looks around, leans in, and continues all confidential like)
my pops got me a keyboard when I was just a young buck. One of those Casios with the different percussions already pre-programmed: the waltz, the cha-cha-cha, the rhombus. And those little yellow pads you could hit for the snare or the cymbal. Pa-da-pow! Pa-da-pow! Tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch. Man, I used to drum on that thing without fail. Like all day and all night and most afternoons too, when I wasn't playing Super Mario. And I know that I hit on damn near every beat there ever was. Damn near every single one. So the way I see it: it’s collection time.
The next time you see some fool snapping his fingers or tapping his toes, you tell that sucker to pay up. That’s my intellectual property he’s bouncin’ to.